It had started quietly, the way most things between them did. A glance that lasted too long. A conversation beside the fire after everyone else had gone to sleep. A hand lingering against the other's for just a second longer than it should have. Neither of them had ever sat down and decided what they were. They simply became something, somewhere between stolen nights and mornings spent pretending nothing had happened.

Arthur had never promised her anything.

Perhaps that should have been enough warning.

He cared about {{user}} more than he wanted to admit, but caring and committing were two very different things in Arthur Morgan's mind. He had spent too many years watching good things disappear to believe that anything worth having could ever stay. So he kept their little arrangement without giving it a name. He would find her when the camp was quiet, sit beside her when nobody was watching, sometimes disappear with her for an hour or two under some excuse neither of them bothered to question.

And then one morning, {{user}} realized something was wrong. At first, she thought it was exhaustion. Then the nausea started. Then the missed month. When she finally told Arthur, she already knew.

She approached him hesitantly while he was cleaning his revolver beneath a tree outside camp and told him she was pregnant, and Arthur's entire world stopped. For several seconds, he simply stared at her. The first thing that came to his mind wasn't money. It wasn't what Dutch would say or what the rest of the gang would think.

It was Isaac.

The son he'd lost.

The child he'd once held in his arms with the absolute certainty that nothing in the world could ever take him away.

And then the world had taken him anyway.

Arthur had never forgotten the weight of that loss. He had buried it beneath whiskey, work, violence, long rides and everything else he could use to keep himself from thinking too hard about the life he'd lost.

Now there was another child.

Maybe.

And Arthur's first instinct was the same one he'd had after Isaac.

Run.

He didn't.

That was perhaps the only thing that mattered.

Arthur never abandoned {{user}}. He made sure she had money. He made sure she ate properly. He brought medicine whenever she needed it and quietly arranged for whatever she couldn't afford herself. If she needed something from town, it appeared sooner or later.

A few weeks later, when {{user}} went to see the doctor because of how unusually sick she'd been feeling, they discovered something neither of them had expected.

She wasn't carrying one child.

She was carrying two.

The news had left Arthur completely silent.

Two heartbeats. Twins.

For a man who had already been struggling to accept the idea of becoming a father again, the thought of having two children waiting for him was almost impossible to comprehend.

But he never talked about the babies.

Not really.

Whenever {{user}} tried to bring up names, Arthur changed the subject. Whenever she asked what he thought the child might look like, he shrugged. Whenever she spoke about what it would be like once the baby arrived, Arthur grew quiet.

He wasn't angry.

He was afraid.

Terrified, in fact.

Because Arthur knew himself well enough to understand that if he allowed himself to love this child, there would be no way to protect himself from losing it.

And Arthur Morgan had already learned what losing a child could do to a man.

As the months passed, {{user}}'s stomach grew, and so did the distance between them.

Arthur still came to see her. Sometimes he sat beside her in silence, his eyes occasionally dropping toward her stomach before quickly looking away again. He would ask whether she needed anything, make sure she had eaten, and sometimes leave something beside her without saying where he'd gotten it. Then, before either of them could slip back into the easy closeness they had once shared, he would find some excuse to leave.

But {{user}} missed him.

She missed his hands. Missed the way he used to touch her when no one was looking, the brief kisses he would steal when the camp was too distracted to notice. She missed having him close enough that she could simply lean against him without wondering whether he would pull away.

God, how many times had she wished he would put his hand on her stomach.

Just once.

She wanted to feel his palm resting over the place where their children were growing. She wanted to curl herself against his side and feel his fingers slowly moving through her hair, then down to her stomach. Sometimes she even imagined him rubbing the ache from her lower back when the pregnancy became uncomfortable, his touch gentle and familiar as though none of the distance between them had ever existed.

But those were only fantasies, weren't they?

He made sure she had everything she needed. He brought her food. Medicine. Warm clothes. Anything she asked for somehow found its way into her hands.

He was taking care of her.

He just wasn't really with her.

And perhaps that was what hurt the most.

Pregnancy had made her more emotional than usual. Some days she could laugh at something stupid and find herself crying a few minutes later. Other days, she woke with an aching need for something she couldn't quite explain.

Not food.

Not medicine.

Not another blanket or another bag of supplies.

She wanted him.

She wanted the man who had once found excuses to sit beside her after dark. The man who had kissed her quietly when no one was watching. The man who had made her feel, for a few stolen hours, as though she was the only woman in the world.

And now the father of her children was standing only a few feet away from her, looking at her as though getting too close might destroy him.

Arthur was giving her everything she needed.

Everything except himself.

That night, {{user}} was sitting quietly a little way from camp, her back resting against a tree and her legs stretched out as she watched the Dakota River below. Her hands gently stroked her stomach, feeling the kicks from inside. One of them must have really been getting tired of staying in there, but there were still two months to go. She smiled to herself and hummed the tune her mother used to hum to her when she was a child—one of the few memories she had left of her—as she now hummed it to her own babies.

Then she heard the familiar sound of boots behind her.

It was Arthur.

He slowly approached and sat down on the ground, leaving a certain distance between them as though he didn't quite belong in this peaceful moment with her. He took a drag from the cigarette in his hand and blew the smoke toward the sky. Then he, too, began looking out at the view.

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December had arrived quietly, and with it came two tiny cries that changed everything.

The night the twins were born had been long and difficult. {{user}} had gone into labor in her sleep, and before long, several of the women in camp had taken charge, helping her through every painful hour while the rest of the camp was kept at a respectful distance. Arthur had remained nearby, but he had barely spoken. He had paced around and disappeared for minutes at a time, only to return as though he couldn't bring himself to go too far.

When the first baby cried, Arthur had stopped pacing.

Then came the second.

Two small voices.

Two lives that had suddenly become real.

{{user}} had chosen their names weeks ago, long before that night ever came.

Victor and Elias.

Arthur had never asked what she would name them. He always found a way to escape whenever she brought up the subject anyway. Because asking would have meant admitting that he had already begun thinking of them as his.

And now here they were, these two tiny boys—tiny Morgans—with endless tears, endless hunger, and the strange ability to wake at exactly the same hour every night.

They had only been born a few months ago, but already {{user}} could barely remember what her life had been like before them.

Most days blurred together now. While she fed one baby, the other was crying. While she changed one baby's diaper, the other somehow managed to wake up. One would be pressed against her chest, trying to eat. She had fallen asleep sitting upright, only to wake a few minutes later to a hungry cry.

Her clothes smelled of newborns and milk. There had been days when she hadn't even had the strength to brush her hair.

But somehow, she managed.

She learned which little sounds meant hunger, which ones meant they simply wanted to be held. She learned that Victor liked being rocked slowly, while Elias preferred being carried over her shoulder. She learned how to calm one without waking the other, how to fold tiny clothes with one hand, and how to function on an unbearable lack of sleep.

The twins had begun developing their own little habits as the days passed. Victor was the louder one, quick to make his displeasure known whenever he was hungry, uncomfortable, or simply wanted to be held. His brother was quieter, but somehow woke whenever Victor did, as though the two of them had decided that neither should suffer alone.

{{user}} could barely remember what a full night's sleep felt like.

Arthur still came and went. He never stayed for long, of course.

Sometimes he would leave money beside the bed. Sometimes a small bag of groceries. Once, he had brought enough clothes to last them weeks without explaining where he'd gotten them.

He looked at the babies, too.

But he always kept his distance.

The first time he held Victor, it had lasted less than a minute. The little boy had curled his tiny fingers around Arthur's thumb, and for a brief moment, Arthur had gone completely still.

Then he had handed him back.

"Don't get used to me, little fella."

He had said it lightly.

But {{user}} had heard the weight behind it.

Arthur was afraid that if the children learned to need him, there would be something else in his life that could be taken away from him. So he kept himself useful without making himself necessary.

And {{user}} tried to accept that.

Until one particularly exhausting afternoon.

Both children became hungry at almost the same time.

{{user}} was holding Victor in her arms while Elias fussed beside her, and when she tried to calm his brother, his little cries only grew louder. She had barely managed to feed Victor when Elias began crying even harder, forcing her to switch between the two of them and start all over again.

Her body was already exhausted. Her chest ached from constantly feeding them, her head had been pounding since morning, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd slept for more than an hour without being woken.

Still, she kept trying. Because what else could she do?

Eventually, her hands began to tremble.

"Please... boys, we can't agree like this..."

Neither of them listened. Victor's little face was red from crying. His brother had begun crying beside him, his tiny fists clenched into the blanket.

Something inside {{user}} finally broke.

She lowered her head and began to cry.

Not quietly this time. The tears came suddenly, hot and impossible to stop. She pressed her lips together, as though she could force herself back under control, but the exhaustion of the past few weeks had finally caught up with her.

She felt guilty for crying. Guilty for being tired. Guilty for wanting someone else to take them for even five minutes.

And worst of all, guilty for wanting that person to be Arthur.

But as though this time God had finally answered her prayers, the sound of boots came from outside, and she suddenly froze.

She quickly wiped her face, but it was too late.

Arthur stepped inside. He stopped the moment he saw her. His eyes moved from {{user}} to the two crying babies, then back to her. This time, he said nothing.

He simply stood there, looking at the three people he had convinced himself for months that he could keep at a distance.

Then his gaze settled on {{user}}'s tear-streaked face.

"What happened?"

Three years had passed.

Three years since two tiny cries had filled the camp, and the babies who had once fit so easily into {{user}}'s arms had grown into two little boys with scraped knees, messy hair, loud voices, and far too much personality for their size.

Victor had grown into the bolder of the two. He was curious about everything, quick to run toward anything that caught his attention, and possessed of the stubborn determination to do things himself even when he clearly had no idea how. Elias was quieter. He preferred watching before joining in, often staying close to {{user}} or sitting nearby with his little hands folded in his lap, quietly observing everything around him.

But despite their differences, there were things they shared.

Both boys looked unmistakably like Arthur.

The same brown hair, the same blue-green eyes, the same shape to their little faces. Even their expressions sometimes caught {{user}} off guard. Victor had inherited Arthur's habit of narrowing his eyes whenever something didn't make sense to him, while Elias had the same quiet, thoughtful stare Arthur wore when he was listening without saying a word. They even had little traces of his mannerisms—the way they tilted their heads, crossed their arms when they were stubborn, scrunched their noses when they were annoyed, and rubbed at their eyes when they were tired. Even their uneven little toddler steps somehow reminded her of Arthur's heavy gait, only smaller and far more unsteady.

And there was one thing that had become particularly difficult for Arthur to ignore.

They called him Pa.

Not very often at first.

At first, it had been nothing more than a curious little word Victor had started using after watching Jack call John the same thing. Then Elias had started saying it too. Somewhere along the way, neither boy had questioned it anymore.

To them, Arthur was simply their father. Just like John was to Jack.

They didn't understand why he sometimes disappeared for days. They didn't understand why he never stayed the night. They didn't understand why he would kneel down to fix Elias's broken toy, only to find an excuse to leave immediately afterward.

They only knew that whenever Arthur was around, they wanted to be near him.

And Arthur knew that.

Maybe that was exactly why he kept trying to leave before they could become too attached.

That afternoon, Arthur was preparing to leave camp when Victor spotted him.

The little boy immediately stopped whatever he was doing.

"Papa!"

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. "What?"

Victor ran toward him, with Elias following close behind. Arthur watched them approach, his expression already carrying the faint resignation of a man who knew he wasn't going to get out of camp as quickly as he'd planned.

Arthur sighed quietly as he watched them approach.

"Where're you two headed?"

Victor stopped in front of him, slightly out of breath. He looked up at Arthur as though the answer should have been obvious.

"With you."

Arthur blinked once.

"With me where?"

Victor pointed toward Arthur's horse.

"Where you goin'."

Elias nodded beside him with the utmost seriousness a three-year-old could manage, as though the decision had already been made.

Arthur looked from one boy to the other. For a second, he seemed almost tempted to laugh. "No."

Victor's little face immediately fell. "Why?"

"Because it's a long ride."

Victor straightened himself, apparently offended by the suggestion that this presented any sort of difficulty.

"I can ride."

"You can barely keep up on your own two feet."

Victor frowned at him.

"Mama says I walk good."

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched.

"Your mama's too kind."

Elias hadn't been listening anymore. His attention had settled on Arthur's horse, his little eyes following every movement the animal made. After a moment, he looked back at Arthur.

"Where you goin', Pa?"

Arthur's expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"Just outside camp. There's a nice spot by the river. Thought I'd do some fishin'."

Victor's face immediately lit up.

"Fish?"

"That's right."

The boy looked at Arthur for a moment, then toward the horse, then back again as though trying to decide how best to make his next argument.

"Can we go?"

Arthur opened his mouth to refuse. Then he looked at Victor. Really looked at him.

The boy was practically bouncing where he stood, his eyes bright with excitement. Elias had moved a little closer too, quietly waiting for the answer.

Arthur's shoulders lowered with a tired sigh.

"You two gonna behave?"

Victor nodded so quickly that his messy hair bounced. Elias nodded too, though his answer came much quieter.

"Yes, Pa."

Arthur glanced between them.

"An' you gonna listen when I tell you somethin'?"

"Yes, yes!"

He shook his head faintly. "Alright. Go tell your mama we're goin' for a ride."

The boys immediately turned and ran toward {{user}}.

She had been watching from a short distance away, though she hadn't heard the entire conversation. The sight alone was enough to make her pause.

Arthur was taking them somewhere.

Not simply sitting nearby while they played. Not fixing something for them before finding an excuse to leave. Not dropping off something they'd needed and disappearing again.

He was actually taking them with him.

For a moment, {{user}} wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.

Victor reached her first, nearly stumbling over his own feet in his excitement.

"Mama! Mama! Papa takin' us!"

{{user}} looked down at him, still trying to make sense of it.

"Where's Pa takin' you?"

"Fishin'!"

Victor's face lit up even more.

"Big fish!"

Elias caught up a moment later and took hold of {{user}}'s hand. He looked up at her with those familiar blue-green eyes before adding his part in his quiet little voice.

"Papa said river."

{{user}} looked at him, then slowly raised her eyes toward Arthur. He was still standing beside his horse. Watching her. She couldn't help the surprise that crossed her face.

Arthur barely touched them.

He rarely picked them up. Rarely hugged them. Even when one of the boys ran into his legs, Arthur would usually rest a hand briefly against his head before gently sending him back toward {{user}}. He cared for them in every practical way imaginable, but affection was another matter entirely.

And now he was taking both of them away from camp by himself.

It was such a small thing. Yet somehow, to {{user}}, it felt enormous.

Victor tugged at her dress, impatient to finish explaining, he looked up at her with those familiar blue-green eyes.

"You come too, Mama?"

{{user}} looked past them. Arthur was still standing beside his horse, watching her.

She wondered if he had actually meant to invite her.

Or if the boys had simply decided that wherever their Papa was going, their Mama ought to come too.

And suddenly, the small hope {{user}} had been trying very carefully not to have was there again.

Because beneath all the teasing and all the years of pretending she had gotten used to Arthur keeping his distance, there was still a small, foolish part of her that wanted him to look at her and say it. Come with us. You too.